


Messenger

by tabbystardust



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabbystardust/pseuds/tabbystardust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short Lovecraft crossover fic I wrote a couple of years ago for the kinkmeme. It's the first fanfic I have ever written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Messenger

The morning was damp and dreary, dark clouds hanging melancholy over the age-worn rooftops of London, fog drifting in street corners and alleyways, wrapping the great city in its clammy embrace. As my carriage drew near Pentonville Prison I saw a large crowd gathered in the street, a pitiful grey horde with fear in their eyes. The crowd parted as I stepped out of the carriage and made my way into the looming building. I had been summoned here at this early hour for I was Lord Blackwood’s last request.

I was led down stony steps into the lower parts of the prison where Blackwood was being held. The corridor was dark, lit only by a handful of flickering torches, the crumbling stone walls seeping moisture. Doors to empty cells yawned open on both sides, and as I inquired the reason for this the young guard accompanying me told me that it had been necessary to remove the other prisoners as they had been nearly driven to madness by Lord Blackwood’s presence. I smiled incredulously at the notion that any person should have such an effect upon grown men, but as we neared the end of the corridor the guard grew timid, and seeing his reluctance to approach the lone cell from where I could now hear vague whispers emanating I excused the poor fellow. As his hurried footsteps retreated up the stairs I turned and edged closer to the whispering voice in the darkness.

Standing close to the iron bars I could discern a black shape in the shadows and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light I noticed the walls were covered with strange symbols painted with some dark substance. The whispers were more audible now, a rustling sound as a page was turned, and after a moment it became clear to me that Blackwood was reading from the _Necronomicon_ , regarding which I had heard terrible hints and rumours from old scholars of forbidden lore. I had never read the book myself nor did I have the slightest inclination to do so, having witnessed its unfortunate effect on the minds of those who had, and knowing its reputation I did not find it surprising that the police officers had not dared to confiscate the accursed tome when they had made the arrest. Then I was struck by the unnerving thought of how the man was able to read at all, for the blackness in the corner where he was sitting was nigh impenetrable, and I shivered, though it may have just been the cool underground air.

The whispering ceased suddenly and I was greeted by a deep, soft voice, full of wisdom of untold years, followed by the rustle of silken robes as Blackwood rose from his seat and crossed the distance between us in a few graceful steps. The curious clicking of his shoes sounded eerily like hooves and I shivered again, for the moisture was slowly creeping into my clothes and the dungeon was very chilly. As he drew near his scent filled my nostrils, a peculiar mixture of strong incense and something I could not quite identify. My knees had grown oddly weak. Clearing my throat I inquired the tall dark man as to the purpose of his request, and he laughed, cold and smooth as the night, and then he told me.

He told me, and by the merciful gods of Earth I should have fled then but I had been mesmerized by the soothing timbre of his voice, so I could not help but listen as he recounted his nightmarish plans to me. Plans his minions were putting into motion at this very moment, here and all across the world, in preparation for the coming of the Other Gods when the time was right.

Of these Other Gods he spoke at great length, beings who dwelled in the black aether between the stars, and of the Great Old Ones, who slumbered under sea and under ground, dead but dreaming, and who would rise again when the stars were right, even as the Other Gods would descend down to Earth to feast upon the souls of the doomed mankind.

These things among others, I knew, were described in the hoary pages of the Necronomicon, and they filled me with unspeakable dread, yet all the while I stood there, unable to resist as he wove his web of nightmares around me until I felt like I was about to suffocate. The eldritch odour of his presence was overwhelming now, the incense mixed with a tang of electricity and what I can only describe as the scent of those infinite abysses of interstellar void of which he spoke. My heart was beating rapidly and I realized I was sweating despite the freezing cold. His black eyes held mine in their unyielding gaze and I felt my strength waning, as if pulled slowly into those bottomless pools of eternal night that seemed so eager to devour my very soul.

At last he released me from his spell and it was not the hellish dark face leering between the bars, nor the unearthly scent, nor the inky slithering voice whispering visions of doom into my ear, but the final horrifying revelation that caused all sane thought to abandon me, and I fled screaming from that accursed place, the parting words of the thing the world had known as Lord Blackwood reverberating endlessly through my head: “The time is near, Sherlock Holmes. The stars are right. The Other Gods are coming. I know this, _for I am their soul and messenger Nyarlathotep!_ ”


End file.
